


but i love you so

by fullfeature



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Bill is a good boyfriend, Dirty Talk, F/M, M/M, Polyamory Negotiations, Pre-smut, Richie loves Eddie, no! cheating!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-01-28 20:52:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12615252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fullfeature/pseuds/fullfeature
Summary: Richie is not aching for love, no. But sometimes he thinks it would be nice to have someone see him in his entirety and not pull away.





	1. Chapter 1

Richie watches Bill and Eddie kiss with feigned nonchalance. The music around them is faint but the air is hot. The room pulses with that tangible frat party energy. The three of them are sitting on couches that had been moved to make way for the dance floor, which is directly ahead. There are a plethora of things he could be focusing on in the couples’ direction: Erica, a girl in his intro theatre class, is doing some sort of interpretive dance to the music. Mike is leaned over a girl on the far wall, probably sweating his ass off in his leather jacket. Even Beverly and Ben are in his distant field of vision, dancing by Ben’s standards of the word, which is to say they are swaying out of time with the beat. He, of course, is not watching any of that. Just cataloging it, if anyone were to ask. Of course, it is Bill and Eddie he is focused on.  
  


He is watching Bill slide his hand up Eddie’s thigh, watching Eddie’s legs open in response, watching their tongues meet between their lips. He and Eddie had been having a conversation about some comic book when Bill had rolled up looking like a tousled model, as he usually did. He’d nodded at Richie and then immediately turned to plop next to his boyfriend, locking their lips on the way down. Richie is not exactly sure how much Bill has had to drink, but Eddie is tipsy, cheeks flushed and hair curling in the party heat. Bill is whispering something into Eddie’s mouth. Something dirty, it seems. Eddie goes red but he smiles, hooks one hand around the back of Bill’s neck and swings his leg over Bill’s lap to settle into a provocative straddle.  It leaves Richie’s mouth a little dry, is the thing.  
  


Richie wouldn’t call himself _hard up_ or anything, if asked. He’s well aware that girls and boys look at him with lust in their eyes. He knows that he could walk into the crowd right now, start to dance with someone and probably leave with them too. The thing about it is… He has no interest in those strangers with their heated eyes and sweaty palms. He’s gone down that path, of course. Who hasn’t? When college was new and exciting, when the door to Derry shut firmly behind him, Richie happened to run a bit wild. Slept around a little. There was the blonde in his Biology class: her pink nails had left red little lines all down his back. The boy with the lip ring who had sucked the soul out of him for nearly an hour. And then there had been the frankly awful drunk encounter with his older TA. They’d both gone pink from neck up the morning after.  
  


So no. Not quite hard up. But… All of those excursions. They had never been exactly what Richie had been wanting. No. Those girls and boys had not seen him, not really. They had seen his skin, the freckles on his hips and the scars on his palms, but they hadn’t seen him. They didn’t know his past, they barely knew his present. Richie hadn’t felt _wrong_ exactly, not in the moment. Afterword, when he woke up alone, looked at himself the mirror… That had been the worst part. When he had to face his sunken eyes, hollow expression. The marks across his skin. Sometimes the filth felt like a film he couldn’t wash off. When he closed his eyes in the shower he could feel their hands. The slight pressure on the junction of his thighs, their lips on the side of his neck. It makes him shudder even now.  
  


“You ok there, Rich?” Bill has his chin on Eddie’s shoulder. He is idly circling his thumb on the backside of Eddie’s waist, legs long and open where he bumps his knees to Richie’s. Eddie turns to face him just a little, eyes glazed with heat. He stares into Richie’s eyes not with the same curiosity as Bill, but instead with something darker.  
  


“I’m good,” Richie says. He can’t pull his eyes off Eddie, who spreads his knees wider, settling higher up in Bill’s lap to gain his attention. Bill runs his palms down Eddie’s back, but doesn’t do anything else. Richie wants to say something else, tell them to get a room, maybe. Mention that Mike seems to be getting some too. He can’t though. Eddie’s eyes are pinning his mouth shut, the heat in them sliding up and around his throat like vice.  
 

Eddie keeps his gaze, smirks a little as he presses a small kiss to the base of Bill’s throat. He finally, finally, frees Richie from his grasp, closing his eyes to bite the skin at his mouth. Richie tries to pretend he didn’t watch Bill’s hips thrust up involuntarily. He did though, and Bill knows. They meet eyes. Richie wants to make some sort of joke, something to lighten the mood. He can’t. His throat is far too dry.  
  


Bill gives him an embarrassed smile, but he doesn’t move. He laughs, quiet. “You know, Rich, We…” he trails of. Eddie is looking at Bill with wide brown eyes, still glazed but more aware now. They have some sort of silent eyebrow conversation that ends quickly, Richie struggling to make sense of it. Eddie buries his head into Bill’s shoulder, back arching a tad. Bill starts again. “We’ve talked, Eh-Eddie and I,” he takes a breath. “About this. You.”  
  


Richie waits for the rest of the sentence, but apparently that is it. “About me? You talkin’ shit, Denbrough?” The joke falls flat. Eddie untangles himself, scooting back onto Bill’s knees, facing Richie and rolling his eyes.  
 

“Told you he wouldn’t get it, babe.” Eddie’s cheeks are red. He’s sucking his cheeks in the way he does before making a choice, like he does about picking food or picking outfits. It is Bill that makes the choice apparently,  bumping his knees to Richie’s and startling Eddie into motion.  
  


“I don’t…” Richie isn’t quite sure what to say. There is something here that isn’t normal, not for the three of them. Yeah, the charged air was usually present when Bill and Eddie drank together, but that was to be expected from people so into one another they could eyebrow conversate. This though, the air between Eddie and him as the smaller boy slides from Bill’s lap to his, it’s something he used to think about a long time ago. In his hometown Derry sheets, when he started figure out that boys were nice too, Richie often thought of little Eddie who fit right into his side and batted his lashes to get his way.  
  


This Eddie and that one are different in some ways, but they’re also remarkably similar. Richie, if ever asked, will blame his alcohol intake for the thought that whispers: _Eddie’s always been your dream._ And a dream he is, planting his hands on the couch next to Richie’s head, knees mirroring them too, his weight heavy and hot in Richie’s lap. Eddie is looking at him. They’re faces are level now and Richie could trace the freckles that spatter the bridge of Eddie’s nose.  
  


Somehow that is the thought that pulls him out his head, innocent but not, and certainly ill-fitting to _this_ . Whatever _this_ may be. “Hey there, Eds,” He tries, voice hoarse. “Comfy? I thought Big Bill would be your seat for the night.” There is an innuendo there Richie would usually make, but that feels like he’d be orbiting too close to the sun if he said it now. Obviously, that's where this is going. Obviously. If not then Richie must be drunker than he thought.  
 

Eddie is not afraid of the sun. How could he be afraid of himself? “I could sit on something else, Trashmouth,” he says. His breath smells like vodka, but it is warm across Richie’s chin as Eddie leans in. Richie really feels like he’s being hit by some sort of solar flare, some astro phenomena. Like he’ll blink and it’ll be gone forever.  
  


“Don’t tease him,” Bill orders. Richie jumps, he’d forgotten Bill was there at all. He’d forgotten Eddie’s _boyfriend_ was watching. Eddie laughs, bringing his hands to Richie’s shoulders, pressing his thumbs right under Richie’s collarbones.  
 

“He likes it,” Eddie quips. His head tilts to the side in mock innocence, “Besides, we both know this isn’t really teasing.” To make his point clear Eddie leans in, ghosts the tip of his tongue across Richie’s adam’s apple and pulls back.  
  


If this is not teasing Richie is not sure he could survive the real thing. He is almost instantly hard, having been halfway there since he’d watched Bill fuck his hips up in pure instinct. “...you could sit on something else,” Richie finally says. He meets Bill’s eyes over Eddie’s shoulder, trying to gauge his reaction. Bill is languid, legs open wide, back relaxed. The only intent about him is his eyes, looking into Richie’s like they’re daring him. _Do it._ They say. _I dare you. Touch him, Richie._    
  


Richie Tozier does not, will not, and has never, backed down from a dare. He grabs Eddie by the waist, pulling him into his chest and making it clear what exactly he could sit on if he so pleased. Eddie laughs, a little breathless, in response. He preens too, always happy to be the center of attention. His hands slide onto Richie’s chest as he grinds down, hips moving in a slow back and forth. “Mhm, you sure Rich?” He doesn’t really wait for a response, and Richie doesn’t give one. Instead he grips one handful of the smaller boy’s ass, not trusting his voice. “I don’t know, babe.”  
 

Eddie is no longer talking to him, face turned to the side as he addresses Bill. “You think he can fuck me as good as you?” Bill laughs, loud and startling. Richie is suddenly reminded that they are at party, in a frat house full of people they don’t know, practically acting out the start of a porno on someone else’s couch.  His companions don’t seem to mind, but Richie isn’t sure they’re not entranced by one another. It wouldn’t be the first time. The only new thing is that he’d been entranced too.  
  


Bill leans forward. The couches are pressed close enough that when he scoots to the edge of the seat and widens his legs Richie is enclosed in them too. When Bill stands the front of his knees meet the edge of Richie’s couch, and it is easy for him to drag Eddie back into a pose worthy of renaissance art. Eddie’s head falls to Bill’s shoulder, his legs widen as he arches into the hand setting where his collarbone meets his throat. The slight bulge in his jeans is made prominent, his hips elevated. There is nothing going through Richie’s head anymore except: _Oh my god._  Bill puts his head on Eddie’s shoulder, planting his thumb on Eddie’s lip. It is so similar to how it started, but yet in million ways different.  
  


“Could you Richie?” Bill asks, his thumb dips into Eddie’s mouth, presses against his tongue. Sober Eddie would probably have more to say about that, but this Eddie: drunk on something, multiple somethings, just hollows his cheeks and meets Richie’s wide eyes with pleasure. Eddie did always like having the upper hand, a complex about being so small, maybe.  
 

Eddie releases Bill’s thumb with a _pop!_ his form folding down again to whisper directly into Richie’s ear. Bill let’s him go, standing tall still like a guard. “Rich,” Eddie says, voice lower than Richie really thought it could go, “won’t you give me what I want?” His fingers are grazing the button on Richie’s jeans and he is _so close_ to finally, finally actually doing something that Richie might explode, implode, every plode in between-- there is a beat where Richie takes a hitching breath to say something like _I’ll give you anything you want, baby,_ or a least try to be that suave-- but:  
  


“FUCK,” a girl says yanking back the curtain. “Turn it off! Shut it down! We got cops!” The music cuts almost instantly, and Bill is yanking Eddie away by his armpits. The sexual tension is sucked from the atmosphere, rough and harsh and devastating. Bill puts Eddie on his hip, the smaller boy’s legs dangling off the ground and doesn’t say a word as Eddie starts to struggle, caring only about getting Eddie away from the impending trouble.  
 

Richie stands a beat too late, watching Bill exit before the throng of people start to pile out the back. He has no choice but to take a side window out, the cold air chilling him instantly. He checks his phone, thinking maybe one of them would say something, but the only text is from Mike, explaining that he’d left awhile back with whatever girl he’d been chatting to.  
  


There is a very familiar feeling in Richie’s chest, one he cannot exactly put a clear name to, something like _cast aside, or convenient._  He walks to his dorm in quiet peace, thoughts scattered and split apart by that feeling. He lays in bed until the early morning fighting thoughts of Bill and Eddie and what they’d done when they’d gotten back to their apartment, how he could’ve been there too. He especially fights the thought of a third there with them, Stan maybe, or any cute guy they could’ve come across. Just the idea of it all being _convenient_ , of him being _just there_ is enough to make lungs tight and his skin itch.  
  
For a second he’d thought they’d _seen_ him, bottle glasses, crooked teeth, that’d they’d wanted, _longed for it,_ too.   


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here there be the devils lettuce and hetero stuff

Richie spends the next week dodging Bill and Eddie both. It is not particularly hard. They have very different schedules and if he ignores the Loser’s Club group chat then he can go whole days without seeing them. He instead texts the other losers privately, or sticks to snapchatting them. They each try to pry about why they haven’t seen him, but he ignores those messages too.   
  


Ignoring the direct messages Eddie sends him is much harder. When Richie doesn’t reply to his usual texts about shitty cafe food and boring lectures Eddie starts to send things like  _ Rich? Are you good?  _ and  _ Hey, dipshit, Ben says you won’t be at lunch again? Tf, Tozier.  _ Those texts are tolerable. The ones later on,  _ Rich? Did we do something?  _ And  _ Richie, talk to me.  _ are the ones that have Richie throwing his phone across the room and curling into his sheets.   
  


As if those were not difficult enough, on Day Six of his self imposed isolation he gets a text from Bill. When the notification pops Richie winces. Bill doesn’t text outside of the groupchat unless there’s something wrong. The last text Richie has from Bill alone is a thank you from when Bill had asked about how he could fix whatever he’d done to make Eddie mad at the time.  
  


_ Eddie says you’re avoiding him _ , is what this message reads. Richie feels his heart clench, chest tightening uncomfortably. He doesn’t know how to say that he can’t imagine facing Eddie without seeing the lust in his eyes from the weekend, and can’t handle them treating him normally now that they’ve given him a taste of something more. It all sounds too desperate, too wanting. So he says nothing. Instead he pours his time into his studies, making flashcards and rewriting notes just for something to do with his hands. The time usually spent in the quad he spends laying in bed, eyes closed, thinking about Bill&Eddie and the way they look at one another.   
  


There is an awful voice in the back of his head that says:  _ No one will ever look at you that way.  _ Eddie’s brown eyes soft and sweet, sometimes swimming, often teasing. Bill’s eyes are always full of overt love, even when he’s scolding Eddie for something or letting Eddie pester him. Blue and brown, a juxtaposition that Richie dreams about; soft and warm but playful and goading too.   
  


Laying in bed Richie cannot help but remember the time he’d interrupted them at their apartment warming party. They decided to live a few blocks away instead of on campus, Eddie worried about living around so many people and Bill just wanting some peace and quiet. The party itself had been a rather calm affair, strictly Losers’ Club Only. He’d noticed the way Eddie and Bill had orbited around one another differently than usual, giddy and pink cheeked no matter what. Eddie had worn a purple sweater that had engulfed him, and Richie can still see the way Bill had fit his hands under it whenever the opportunity presented itself. The night had been bittersweet, watching them be so happy to simply be together. Those bittersweet feelings were selfish, and Richie had clenched his nails into his fists trying to will the emotions away.   
  


The party had been winding down, the other losers settled into the couch with blankets and drunken whispers. Eddie had gone into the kitchen to clean, with Bill following a few minutes behind. Richie had tried to wait, honestly, but he was desperate to wash the taste of whiskey from his mouth. So he’d tip-toed into their kitchen, expecting to find them pressed together at the fridge, the counter maybe, locked at the lips and grasping at one another in the way the young couples do when they’re so very in love.   
  


Instead he’d seen Bill standing at the open fridge, blue light casting odd shaped shadows across the dark room. Bill had been watching Eddie put away the remainder of a cheese plate, a soft smile ghosting his face. Eddie must have said something like  _ oh I love this song _ , but Richie cannot even remember what had been playing. Bill started to laugh as Eddie began to sway his hips, and Richie had been about to make his presence known with a striptease joke until: 

_ I am so in love with you,  _ Bill had said, grasping one of Eddie’s hands in his own. Eddie had gone into his chest like he was made to fill the mold and they’d swayed there like proper lovers. Bill’s hand on the small of Eddie’s back, Eddie’s head pillowed just under Bill’s shoulder, their eyes closed. Richie knew he shouldn’t be watching this, it felt too intimate, standing there in the dark as they danced in their fridge light, in their home, the start of the rest of their life laid out before them.   
  


In his own bed alone Richie can only clench his eyes against the image the rises up without his permission: him, sliding across the kitchen to circle his arms around Eddie’s chest, meeting Bill’s soft blue eyes and seeing so much love there that he knows, without a shadow of a doubt that this is where he belongs. In reality he’d watched as Bill dipped Eddie in the small space between their kitchen counter and island, listening to Eddie’s embarrassed little giggle as Bill lent down to pepper his face with kisses. Richie had only gained the strength to move when Bill had pulled Eddie flush to him, hands reverent across his ribs and waist.   
  


He’d flicked on the lights and winced himself, watching them both jump and laugh as they pulled apart.  _ You wanna dance too, Rich?  _ Eddie had asked, offering his hand. Bill had his hands on the smaller boys waist, smiling at Richie too. Richie had looked them both and thought that Eddie didn’t understand, that he would never know quite how much Richie wanted to dance with them.    
  


_ I already got a striptease from your mom, maybe next time,  _ is what Richie had said instead of the words that had bubbled within him, words like love and safety and home.   
  


On Day Seven Beverly knocks on his door so hard that Richie thinks she might break it. Her hair is parted into two braids, each winding across her scalp to meet in the back. She looks almost regal, except for the fact that her expression is marred with thinly veiled irritation. She glances behind him at his disaster of a room. “Richie,” The set to her mouth is taunt. Her eyes are a cold, hard blue. “What the fuck,” Beverly pushes open his door and steps past him into the room. Her feet don’t even try to stay on the thin path Richie has left clean, stomping over paper and clothes carelessly. “You’ve been ditching us to what? Lay in bed?”   
  


He shrugs. It’s true to an extent. “Got too busy in bed to leave,” he jokes, miming jerking off. She wrinkles her nose, but cracks a smile. It’s short lived though, as she sniffs the air and her smile twists to a grimace.   
  


“You know, that’d be funnier if it didn’t smell like it was true.” She kicks Richie’s clothes out of her way, grabbing the laundry basket at the end of his bed. “Well,” she says, “are you just gonna stand there, or what? Start cleaning.” She thrusts the basket at him, and yanks back his curtains, letting the afternoon sun into the small room. “And turn the fucking light on, it’s like you think you’re Batman all the sudden.”   
  


Richie laughs, loud and rough, like it is yanked from him. “Aye, Aye, Captain,” he says.   
  


It takes them two hours to get Richie’s room to something resembling sanitary, but it’s worth it. Richie feels better, although he’s not sure how much of that is the cleanliness and how much of that is he and Beverly’s easy back and forth. She plops on his clean sheets, groaning. Her back pops, and she sags into his pillows for only a moment before peering one eye at him. He is sitting at his desk, fiddling with his phone and trying to ignore that Eddie has stopped sending him messages. They meet eyes for a brief moment, Richie’s darting back to stare at the doodles engraved into the wood of his desk.   
  


“So,” Beverly sits up, switching to sit criss-cross and looking stern. “Now that we’ve un-shitted your space, we gonna un-shit your brain?” She pats the bed next to her.   
  


Richie lays down, his head in her lap, letting her hands run through his unbrushed hair. He says nothing, wincing occasionally when Beverly manages to hit a snag. She lets him sit, not unfamiliar with this. Sometimes Richie feels like he is constantly on, defending and joking and squabbling and he doesn’t have a moment to breathe until he’s alone; but then he’s choking, lungs filling up with water as he tries to center himself. Beverly knows that sometimes he needs to be quiet, to hold his breath and be held. Eddie knows too, probably better than anyone, but sometimes he’s busy. Mostly with Bill.   
  


It is that thought that has Richie turning his face to the ceiling, finally ready to talk. “I’m fucked,” he says. “I’ve been fucked for years.”  
  


Beverly leans back. “Yeah? Why’s that?” Her hands continue to run through his hair, curling it around her fingers and letting it fall.  
  


“I’ve caught feelings, Bev, it’s happened and I can’t ignore it anymore and I’m gonna die.” Richie turns his face back into her thigh and groans. He can’t tell her. He wants to. Really, really wants to. Beverly doesn’t do secrets, though. She never has.    
  


Beverly  _ hms _ . She waits for him to elaborate, but when it becomes obvious that he isn’t going to she sits up. “So, what’s gonna make you feel better, curly?” She makes him sit up too, running her hands across his face and down his shoulders. “You wanna get outta here? Catch a party? Frat Party Friday,” she sing-songs the last bit, smiling.     
  


“Yeah,” Richie sighs, “beats moping here I guess. Bring weed?”   
  


Beverly laughs, “You know it, Trashmouth. Sounding more like yourself already.”   
  


Hours later Richie looks up at the ceiling light and wonders when it had twin babies. He turns to look at Beverly, but there’s three of her too, and it’s hard to make his eyes focus. His mouth struggles to form words, tongue too big and throat too dry. Whatever Beverly got was… a lot. He can hear the party upstairs, but the noise is far away, drowned out by his heartbeat in his ears. He wants to ask her if she’s feeling it this hard too, seeing triple and feeling like the cotton fuzz you pull from your jean pockets.  _ Fuzz… Fuzzballs. Balls.  _ Richie laughs at his own thoughts, and once he’s started he can’t stop, giggling and chuckling until he is out of breath, starting to hiccup.   
  


“What’re you laughin’ bout,” Beverly’s head lolls to the side, her words slow and eyelids drooping. She always prefered a nap when she got too high, but Richie can’t understand wanting to sleep off the good vibes.  
  


“Balls,” Richie says before he starts to laugh anew. The girl next to him giggles as well, her hand coming up to clasp his bicep as she passes him the joint again. The touch centers him and bit, world swimming back into focus as he takes it from her. Richie takes a shallow hit this time, wanting to be able to walk back to his dorm eventually. He barely notices Bev’s pointed stare as he passes her the joint.  
  


It isn’t until she speaks that Richie realizes she hasn’t removed her hand and that she’s slipped her fingers into his sleeve. “Richie, right?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, pulling her knees up on the couch as she wiggles closer to his side. “M’Ariel. Haven’t seen you around.” There’s the edge of flirtation on her tongue, and when Richie tries to meet her eyes his gaze is drawn to her chest instead. No bra, nipple piercings visible through her white tank top. He wonders what they’d feel like against lips, if they’re cold. __ If they’re cold can she feel them? Are her boobs cold?    
  


“Nope,” Ariel pops her p, grabbing his hand and pulling it onto her chest. His thumb brushes the metal before his mind even realizes he’s said his thoughts outloud.   
  


“Not cold,” he says. Richie really does meet her eyes then, bloodshot and green. Her lips pull back into a smile as she uses her grip on his arm to climb into his lap. His other hand meets her waist on instinct, and he pushes down the part of him that compares it to all the times Eddie has climbed onto him without warning.   
  


“Could do with some warming up, still,” her blonde hair brushes across his shoulders as she leans into kiss him, and he isn’t going to say no, not when she’d made it clear what she wanted. Their kiss is sloppy, and Richie still feels like his tongue is too big for his mouth, but it heats up his blood just the same. She bites at his bottom lip, hand pulling the baby hairs at the back of his neck. He twists the metal bar still in his fingers and she gasps, arches up harshly and laughs a bit. “Gentle,” she says into his cheek, “they’re sensitive.”  
  


He laughs just a bit, “Sorry.” She shrugs, shifting her weight down into his lap and letting her hands fall down his chest to the button on his belt. “If it was gonna end up like this I wish you woulda seen me around,” Richie says, tugging on the bar again, but softer this time.   
  


It’s her turn to giggle, “wanna get outta here?” Her nails catch on the teeth of his zipper as she strokes him through his jeans, and all Richie can do is nod. As they stand to leave he misses the expression on Beverly’s face, a narrow eyed look of suspicion. He also doesn’t see Bill as he carries the blonde up the stairs, hands firmly grasping her ass. Bill stares at the two of them, stopping short in his descent. His blue eyes are cold in anger, fists clenched. Beverly stands, only a bit off balance and meets him before he can do anything drastic.   
  


“I thought you s-suh-said he n-n-” Bill takes a harsh breath. Beverly knows it is not her he is angry at, so she lets his tone slide. “Needed us.” Bill finishes, after a moment.    
  


“I thought he did,” Beverly shrugs. Her vibe is gone, and all she wants to do now is sleep. “Still gonna take me back?”   
  


There is a pause where he takes a breath and closes his eyes. Afterword Bill looks contrite, eyes softer now. “Of cuh-course, Bev. Let’s go.” His hands are warm as they guide her to the door, and his tone is calmer when he asks if she’d like to go back to her dorm. “Or you can come to the ap-partment,” he offers.   
  


Beverly shakes her head, blinking when it leaves her a little dazed. “Jus’ wanna sleep,” she says, letting her forehead press into the window.   
  


After Bill drops Beverly off he can’t use her as a distraction from his anger. All he can see is Richie and that girl, traipsing up the stairs. His teeth clench, and he tries to think of something else. Of what to tell Eddie when he doesn’t bring back a touchy Richie Tozier like he expects. Bill considers lying, for just a second, to spare Eddie pain, but he knows he won’t. It just makes him angrier, thinking of Eddie the past week, how he’d stared at his phone at bitten his lips until Bill thought he could feel the indentations of his teeth when they kissed. Bill had been hurt too, when Richie started avoiding them, but it is much easier to focus on his anger than his heartbreak.    
  


He opens the door to their apartment, quietly shrugging off his jacket and taking off his shoes. The lights are all off, and he navigates his way to the bedroom in the dark. “Hey baby,” he says to the lump that is Eddie.   
  


Eddie stirs, watching as Bill strips to his boxers. “Wheres’ ‘ichie?” He asks, face still smushed into a pillow.   
  


Bill slides under the blanket and wraps Eddie in his arms, hoping somehow to soften the blow. “He’s staying at someone else's place.” Eddie lets out a soft noise of confusion, cuddling into Bill’s side.   
  


“Bevrys?” The smaller boy starts to kiss across Bill’s chest, eyes fluttering closed again. Bill is struck with an intense wave of sadness, knowing that he could avoid the question, knowing that he won’t.   
  


Instead he runs his fingers through Eddie’s hair and kisses his forehead, “No. I don’t know wh-who she wuh-was.” He can pinpoint the moment Eddie’s sleepy brain processes the statement, his mouth stopping it kiss trail and pressing into a thin line.   
  


Eddie buries his face into Bill’s chest. He will blame the early hour when asked, but the tears that spring to his eyes are small, little ones that slip easily past his lashes. “Oh,” he says. Bill rubs his back, trying to stutter out assurances, but Eddie is quick to cut them off. “It’s ok,” he says, but his voice wavers. “He can do what he wants, Bill. I went too far, I fucked it up.” Eddie sits up and wipes his eyes, rolling away from Bill to lessen the embarrassment he feels, the shame. He wishes he could take it back, the drinks, the things he said. God, he must have seemed like a slut, grinding down in Richie’s lap like that. He sniffles, trying to will the images away.   
  


Bill puts his forehead to Eddie’s clothed back, arms gripping his waist tight. “Y-you didn’t do anyth-thing ruh-wrong.” He kisses Eddie’s spine. “He’ll come b-back ‘round. He luh-loves us.”   
  


Eddie shakes his head. His voice is high and tight with emotion, and he is thankful Bill cannot see his face. “He doesn’t, though, Bill. Not enough. Not like…”  _ we want him to _ , goes unsaid.   
  


Bill opens his mouth, but he can’t think of anything to say. He’s never been great at advice or consoling people, and he wishes that there was some way to punch Richie from his bed. It wouldn’t help anything, but it would make him feel better. Eddie sits up. Bill starts to follow but Eddie shakes his head, climbing out of bed and wiping at his face again as he leaves the room.   
  


Bill assumes he’s gone to the bathroom to clean up, but after awhile it becomes evident that isn’t the case. Instead, when he goes searching he finds Eddie curled up on the couch, fast asleep with his eyes puffy and lips bitten raw. It makes his heart clench. He lifts Eddie as gentle as possible, kissing his eyelids and making a promise to himself that he’ll fix this.   
  


Richie doesn’t want to be with them, that’s fine. But he isn’t about to let Richie destroy the confidence that took Eddie so long to build. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Kill Bill sirens** 
> 
> the last half of this chapter was??? hard to write. I love Eddie so much and I hate hurting him. Sexy Drunk Eddie > Sad Guilty Eddie
> 
> pls comment it fuels the writing fire in me

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I hope you enjoyed that. 
> 
> Part two maybe? It'd be pining Richie with misunderstandings and protective Bill. I love bill. also lots of love for Richie. 
> 
> Comment if you'd like it to continue?


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